


End of the Road

by Amonae



Series: Zombie AU [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Dystopia, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 16:11:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11695242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amonae/pseuds/Amonae
Summary: The world is in shambles following the aftermath of what scientists are terming the “Z” outbreak. Steve returns to New York, hoping to find more than a city to return to. A follow-up to “Those Who Walk.”





	End of the Road

**Author's Note:**

> Part two of the Zombie-verse, done as a fill for the "Dystopia AU" square on an old Cap-IM Bingo card of mine. Enjoy~
> 
> Unbeta'd. All faults are my own.

It took months for them to make sense of the changes around them. It probably would have taken Tony a few weeks, at most. The difference was subtle at first, things they had already noticed: increased dexterity and cognitive thought processes; several cases of the bites not taking to infection as well as they had, or in some instances, killing the bitten instantly; and the most alarming—those who had turned _coming back to themselves_. Steve didn’t believe it, couldn’t believe it, until he saw it happening to one of their group. There had been reports on the radio lines, whispers of something that sounded too good to be true, too full of hope. 

But there it was, clear as day—a woman who had been all but dead and pulling at her chains only a day earlier, waking the next morning with a nasty infection but no sign of the virus. Steve watched, wide-eyed, as Bruce checked her over with the same bewilderment that he felt. He could see the hope, the fear, the reluctance in Bruce’s eyes when he glanced back, knew the doctor was thinking the same thing that had been filtering through Steve’s mind over the past several weeks.

_What about Tony?_

Steve barely dared to believe, barely dared to hope that there was even a chance that the genius had made it through this unscathed. Tony had been bitten on the very cusp of the turn in the disease, the beginning of everything moving toward recovery instead of infection. There was a small chance, Bruce had informed him, that Tony had been one of the first to come out of it, human again on the other side. Steve hardly allowed himself the spare moment to dwell on the possibility. He had seen him, watched those amber eyes glass over while he tried to focus on the last words Steve had said to him, possibly the last words he ever would say to him.

Steve wished he could go back to that moment, wished he had the courage to say something more, something meaningful. Though no matter what he had said, back then, it wouldn’t change a damn thing now. 

After they were sure that the virus really had receded—that the numbers of undead had dwindled to almost nothing, that those infected came back to themselves only a few days, or even hours after—their group split up. Many of the civilians returned to their home towns, hoping to find others they thought they had lost in the initial scramble. Steve wasn’t sure where his home was, not anymore. Bruce left them halfway through Indiana, mentioning something he needed to check on, though Steve suspected the man needed his space after so much time in confined quarters and high-stress situations with others. Clint and Natasha seemed eager to get back to New York, to see what (if anything) remained of SHIELD. Steve wasn’t sure it was a good idea, going back to the city that held so many memories, both good and bad, but he tagged along. Maybe he could settle back into Brooklyn, help with the rebuild efforts. If anything, it would keep his mind off of what could have been, what he may have done differently, had he known.

They were in Pittsburg, having stopped overnight to resupply and rest, when he saw the first one. On the side of an old warehouse, faded from exposure to the sun and rain, was a graffiti tag, unlike the others Steve had seen in the past. However, he recognized it, saw in the swirling blue patterns and calculations—an image that few others would be able to see.

It was JARVIS, staring back at him from the concrete walls. 

“Jesus,” he hissed, feeling Nat and Clint just as frozen behind him, all three staring at the same visual, the same possibility. 

“Maybe it… was before he was too far gone?” Natasha offered, always the voice of reason. She had known that Steve let Tony go free in the woods, known the moment he returned to camp, looking crushed for an entirely different set of reasons. But Steve had seen him in the forest, known how limply his hands held the pistol that Steve had forced into them. There was no way his Tony, _that_ Tony, had the dexterity to create such an elaborate tag.

Steve listened to the radio feverently after that point, waiting for something else, another sign, another hint. Nothing came through, just more survival stories, more calls for supplies and help from all corners of North America. He had almost given up hope when they saw the second one, scrawled on the peeling front of a billboard along Highway 80.

“Shit, do you think he really did it? Found a cure?” Clint made an attempt to scale the platform, to get a better look at the tag, but the ladder had been torn from its rusted hinges. It lay in the grass, tangled among weeds and pebbles, long forgotten and useless.

Natasha popped her shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, though Steve could see the slightest hint of excitement behind her gaze, bright eyes still glued to the blue swirls on the billboard. “If anyone was crazy enough to do it, you bet your ass it would be Stark.”

Steve didn’t want to hope, but at the same time, he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t stop the tiny flicker of it, dancing just beneath his chest. 

On the way back to New York, they found several more of the scrawling images, each slightly different than the last, as though they were processing a different set of algorithms. Steve wished that Bruce had stuck with them, at least to decipher the first few pieces of graffiti. Maybe then Steve wouldn’t be wondering whether he was getting his hopes up for nothing.

New York, unsurprisingly, was in a state of disarray. Most buildings were abandoned, though there were areas of the city where people who had either stayed or returned were starting to rebuild. When they arrived at the Alexander Hamilton bridge, Steve paused on the other side of Harlem River. He didn’t have to say anything, could see the archer and assassin watching with dual looks of understanding. They knew how much it would break him to go back, to return to the tower just to see it as empty and forlorn as the rest of the city.

So he went to Brooklyn, where he helped families rebuild their homes and builders gut apartments to be repurposed as temporary housing. He settled into one of those buildings, collecting a few meager belongings from his old apartment, which had been ransacked along with the others on his old city block. Thankfully, anything he had that held value to him seemed like junk to anyone else: a few faded photographs, a collection of drawings and letters scribbled with childish abandon, and a single Phillips screwdriver that had been left behind the last time Tony popped by to make “improvements” to his radio.

Though it made him feel nauseous to think about Tony—to wonder where he was, if he was still _him_ somewhere out there—he kept the small screwdriver in his new apartment, running his fingers along the grooves and divots in the handle, etching his fingernail along the indentations in the bit. Steve could recall the look of concentration, the way Tony bit at the inside of his lip while he was working, hunched over the Philco with a furrowed brow. 

The radio had been taken, but that didn’t matter. He could find a new one, it could be replaced. But something about that made his heart clench and shudder, so he put it off, listened to the newer plastic handheld that he’d picked up on the road.

One morning, when he returned from his run—which had turned into running errands and lending a hand to half the neighborhood—and flicked on the little dial, a familiar voice crackled to life. Steve was halfway into the shower, running water finally restored after a few weeks, when Natasha’s calm tone filled the room. 

“—and today, we have a real treat. A classic, just dug up from the archives. Again, I’d like to remind you all that no matter what things look like now, they can only go one way from here. Without further ado, enjoy.”

Steve frowned, confusion creasing his brow as he listened to the first few bars. He recognized the song, it had been big during the war, and he felt a whorl of emotion at the memories it provoked. Crackling fires and boisterous laughter, friends long lost and gone. His voice rose without conscious thought, cracking once before chiming crisp and clear through the tiny room.

“ _Tho’ you’re tired and weary still journey on, till you come to your happy abode, where all the love you’ve been dreaming of will be there at the end of the road_ ,” he sang, letting the sound echo back and wash over him as rivulets of water coursed over his face. Steve turned off the shower once the song was over, scrubbing at his hair with a scratchy cotton towel when Natasha’s voice came back on the air. 

“So friends, just remember, when things look dire _don’t stop searching_. You might find something you didn’t know you were missing. This is Widow, reminding New York that all rebuild efforts are being streamlined through the Avengers Tower. No matter how big, or how small, we will find a way to help.”

The radio fizzled back to the usual announcer, leaving Steve frowning at his bathroom sink, where the black plastic box was balanced. He suspected that Natasha doing radio segments wasn’t exactly part of the rebuild effort, though the angle certainly came across that way. She wouldn’t have chosen that song, if that was the case, certainly not something from that era.

Steve finished drying his hair, threw on a pair of somewhat passable jeans and a button-down, and headed out the door. He’d managed to fix up a few motorcycles, one of which was always outside his building, ready for use. They were easier to weave through the wreckage than a car, and since many parts of the city were largely impassable (except on foot), it was good to have a bike on hand. It took him thirty minutes to get to the tower, more than usual due to a few bridges being blocked by abandoned cars, and when he arrived, he didn’t know what to expect.

He did know that out of all the things he might have predicted, Iron Man’s silhouette halfway up the tower, replacing a panel of glass, wasn’t one of them. Steve felt the ache in his chest and he frowned. It was poor taste for someone else to be using the armor, though how was it even keeping aloft without JARVIS? Maybe Rhodes was back, piloting it to help with repairs. It still left a sour taste in his mouth, no matter the rhyme or reason behind it.

Steve pushed off the bike and towards the building, not halting his progress when he heard the heavy sound of metal boots hitting the pavement behind him. It was only after he caught the tail end of a tinny greeting that he stopped, keeping his eyes on the door and his hands clenched at his sides.

“What? Not even a hello?” Iron Man called out, his voice sounding so much like Tony that Steve risked a glance over his shoulder. The visor was down, but as he often did before the outbreak, Steve could see the amusement in the angle of the armor’s limbs, the tilt of his helmet.

“I came to see what I could do to help,” he answered, voice harder than he meant it, stinging with pain at the back of his throat. “Heard rebuild efforts were based out of here.”

“Oh. Yeah. Here, follow me. I’ll get you set up.” Iron Man stepped into the tower, passing groups of people gathered around tables and volunteer stations, before taking the elevator at the back of the main hall. They didn’t speak as it ascended and Steve could feel the rapid thundering of his heart, pressing hard against his ribs with each beat. It wasn’t him. It _couldn’t_ be him. He got bit. He turned. Steve watched it happen, saw with his own eyes.

“Coming?”

He had been so caught up in his own thoughts he hadn’t even noticed that the elevator had stopped, nor that Iron Man had stepped out, waiting for him halfway into the workshop.

Tony’s workshop.

Steve paled, a knotted twist in his stomach sending wave after wave of agony through him. He didn’t know if he could do this, didn’t know if he could be here, where everything was still so much _Tony_ that it hurt. Even though the workshop surfaces were covered with radios, bits of cars, and an assortment of metal that may have once been a toaster, it was all so familiar it made him want to cry.

Instead, he clenched his jaw and stepped forward.

“Great, I’ll get your help sorting through this stuff to find something useful. Want to get things back to normal as soon as possible, you know? Just give me a second to get out of this.” Iron Man was walking to the platform that would lift off the pieces of the suit, peeling it away inch by inch. The tower, thanks to Tony’s arc reactor technology, still had power, buzzing away through the metal arms as they pried piece after piece of the suit away, revealing the man within.

_No… It’s not… It’s not possible._

Steve found himself holding his breath. 

The helmet came off last, the man reaching up with his own scarred hands to pull it up and over, freeing a shaggy mess of dark hair. It was longer than Steve remembered, longer than he ever remembered it being, though his Van Dyke was only slightly overgrown, as if he had trimmed recently. 

“Tony…?” Steve’s voice came out in a whisper, a hiss of a sound that was almost lost among the rattle of machinery replacing parts to their proper locations. The dark-haired man held up the helmet, letting one of the metal limbs pull it away, though his hands sifted through tangled strands as if he didn’t know what to do with them after.

“Hey,” he rasped, voice rough around the edges. Steve could see the new scars: an angry, puckered line that blazed a trail from his right ear to his left collarbone; a nick where hair no longer grew at the tail end of his left brow, which matched a similar scar along the bow of his lips; and a small, barely-there scratch over the knuckles of his right hand. 

Steve felt his knees go out from under him, relief dragging him down fast and hard to the concrete. Tony was there in an instant, hands hovering, hesitant, just over Steve’s shoulders. Steve felt the first sob bubble past his lips and he kept his gaze on the cold stone flooring, at least hoping to hide the tears he could feel welling under his closed eyelids, though he had no control over the sound. Palms were touching, gently, to his shoulders, a warm and hesitant pressure. Steve could feel the quiver in each of the mechanic’s digits.

“So, uh, welcome home, I guess?” Tony sounded nervous, his fingers tapping a rhythm where before they settled to running soothing patterns over Steve’s arms. Chuckling, he continued speaking, voice harder than Steve remembered, but still full of the same cautious excitement. “When Nat and Clint showed up without you I… I was a little worried, you know? But they said you needed space, which, totally fine, I get that. It was a lot for all of us. But then you didn’t show up and I was about three minutes from flying down to Brooklyn and—”

“How?”

“Sorry?”

“How are you…how…” Steve couldn’t force the words, couldn’t seem to make his voice break more than a soft hiss as his throat closed up, suddenly tight. 

“How am I… me?” Tony offered, and Steve could hear it then, the amused glimmer beneath his tone. Lifting his gaze from the flooring, Steve tried (and failed) to hold Tony’s for more than an instant. “Steve, hey, look at me?”

Tony’s voice was soft, his hands even softer as he tilted Steve’s face up just enough to hold his attention. Amber eyes were shining bright, nothing like the foggy hue they had been before. “I’m okay. I’m here. It’s really me, I promise.” And then Tony’s arms were around him and Steve didn’t even have time to be embarrassed that he was sobbing against the genius’s Nirvana tee shirt. Tony rubbed calming circles between Steve’s shoulder blades as he explained, taking his time where it mattered most.

When Tony had started, in the woods, everything was hazy, his memory fuzzy around the edges. He remembered bits and pieces, strands of images or sound that would filter back to him, but he only started forming real memories a few days after he had left the group. There had been a town, barely big enough for the label, where Tony had stopped for the night. He closed himself up in a tiny two-bedroom home and slept for what felt like days, fever roiling through his body, hand clutching tight to the pistol Steve had left him with in the woods. He had thought it was getting worse, that the virus was finally taking everything from him, removing every last part of him that was human. However, when he woke, everything seemed clearer. His bones ached and his stomach growled with hunger but he felt _right_.

At first, the obvious conclusion was that the drugs had worked, that the miracle cure really hadn’t wasted millions of dollars in funding. But the more times he ran the numbers through his head, the more it seemed impossible. The methodology was there, the theory, sure, but the numbers just didn’t add up. And then he’d heard the rumors, just whispered through passing groups at first, more and more as he got nearer to New York: the virus was receding. The more generations it went through, the more hosts, the weaker it became until it was almost no more than a horrible case of the flu. 

So Tony went to New York, rebuilt the most urgent parts of the tower, and flew the suit every evening across the nearby states, looking for anything that might explain why the world suddenly seemed to be righting itself. 

“And the… graffiti?” Steve asked, finally getting himself under control enough to speak but refusing to raise his face from where it was pressed against Tony’s shoulder. 

Tony laughed, bright and sharp and loud. “You saw those? I kept putting them up, hoping I could lead you guys back to the city, in case you were headed elsewhere.”

“What did they mean?” Steve remembered the variations, could picture them as clearly as if they were right in front of him. Tony stilled, his heartbeat stuttering for a moment. For a long while, neither of them spoke, just sat clutching at each other in the middle of the workshop floor. 

“Well,” Tony, of course, spoke first. “It’s probably easier if I just show you.” He stood then, nudging Steve to stand as well before stalking to the large, open area that served as his three-dimensional work surface. “JARVIS, pull up the file, would you?” 

“Of course, Sir.”

Steve stayed perfectly still as the room dimmed and JARVIS’s blue glow illuminated around them. He could see Tony, a few feet away, uneasily shifting from side to side as the recording played. Tony’s voice filled the room a second later, reflected in the fluctuations of JARVIS’s mind. 

“Steve,” the lights pulsed with a familiar pattern, the one he had seen in several of the tags, “I’m so sorry. I should have told you, I should have let you help. I was scared. Please don’t blame yourself for what happened, and if you have to be angry, be angry with me. Just…come home, Steve. Come back to me, so I can come back to you.”

The room brightened again and Tony had angled himself away, turned his face so Steve could no longer see the expression there. He was tapping an unsteady beat against the arc reactor and Steve saw the edge of his lip caught between his teeth. Though he was sure his eyes were watery again, he crossed the space between them in a few swift steps and pulled Tony into his arms, nestling his face into the mop of dark hair.

“I’m home, Tony.” 

“Welcome home, Steve.”


End file.
